


In Sin and Error Pining

by tvsn



Series: H+S [3]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-07 11:59:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvsn/pseuds/tvsn
Summary: When a linguistic misunderstanding leaves Edmund Hewlett and John Graves Simcoe broke and out in the cold on Christmas Eve, the two embark on a quest to get to the only pub in the area where they know they will be able to leave a tab open.A comedy of begrudging comradery on a backdrop of cheap beer and holiday cheer. Although set within the H+S universe, this so far removed from the events that shape that narrative that I would hesitate to call it a prequel. You needn’t read one in order to enjoy the other; there is no backstory here that will further your understanding of the complexities of interpersonal relationships and/or individual characters. It is just Hewlett and Simcoe trying to get to DeJong’s Tavern before last call. You know, like fluff with thoughts of amicicide.





	1. 10:30 PM

Edmund Hewlett had long assumed that were he to meet an untimely end, John Graves Simcoe would be involved in some manner. That it might well occur on an unmarked backroad somewhere between the outskirts of Setauket and salvation, on a Christmas Eve that found them both broke, broken and in elaborate period dress, came, however, as something of a surprise. He gazed up towards the starless heavens, silently cursing the bus ride that seemed far too long to have stopped short of ferrying them to their intended destination. He cursed the blisters on his feet; he cursed the distance that still existed between himself and a barstool (and the subsequent deficit of alcohol in his blood); above all else though, he cursed his companion. This he opted to do aloud if only for a reprieve from voice that was a torture unto itself.

“You wanted to go to a quote ‘famous Andre party’, Edmund, and in essence, I’ve made that happen for you. I’ll confess I find your resentment perplexing,” Simcoe responded with what he was sure was a smirk. It was too dark to validate. It was his tone that was vexatious.

“We were barred from entry,” Hewlett said, grimacing with discomfort as his swollen toes once again crushed themselves against the riding boots he had yet to properly wear in. “A situation for which I hold you accountable.”

If the man beside him noticed the stressed pronoun and the blame Hewlett had intended it to covey, he gave no indication. Instead, he continued merrily, “You’d really ought to be thanking me. You’d have hated it. Andre’s parties start as Eurotrash approximations of high-minded culture and quickly devolve into absolute debauchery. That _is_ every bit the night we have been having if we were there. Yet you complain.”

Fair as the argument might otherwise have been, it failed to acknowledge the main struggle that formed his basis of his complaint. Hewlett could handle the reality of once again being stranded and otherwise alone over the holiday. He could deal with the boots that gave him blisters, with the stockings and wig that threatened to martyr him in the unseasonably warm December air. Rule, Britannia, and all that went with it. The evidently colour-blind Simcoe, who had been the one to originally suggest they go to a costumed ball as redcoats, had shown up to his great annoyance that evening looking like a colonial Christmas-Elf.  They quarrelled until the door opened and they were informed their efforts had been for nought. Either the invitation had been misphrased, or - more likely - a number of Americans who understood _fancy dress_ to mean _black tie affair_ had shown up before them. John Andre had unapologetic in his curt dismissal.

Hewlett could accept Simcoe’s insistence that the occasion be celebrated in high fashion somewhere else upon being denied entry due to a dress code violation. He could even go so far as to except that _‘somewhere else’_ meant the local dive bar with the discourteous beer-wrench whom Simcoe pined for happened to be pouring - were it not that DeJong’s Tavern was so far removed from Manhattan, that is.

The dinner they had been refused from could not have possibly been on par with the night they were having.

“We could have, by now, been drunk enough to tolerate each other at least,” he scuffed.

Simcoe stopped in his tracks. Turning slowly, he asked, “You think it fair to laden me with that guilt?”

Hewlett did not answer. Some losses were simply too massive, too painful to voice. The night had shown him little more than defeat. Sulking his head, he thought about the bottle of wine he had purchased with the cash he had brought to the city with him as a gift for their would-be host. He barely let the elixir touch his lips before being forced by flashing headlights to answer for having an open bottle in public – something, he had been appalled to learn was apparently a crime in _‘the land of the free’_. He thought of the fine, of the hard-won cash that could have otherwise have been put to the better use of hiring a cab. Simcoe had not wanted to pay the penalty; Hewlett had not wanted to spend Christmas with him in jail.

He had not wanted to meet his impending birthday sober either, but the officer had made him surrender with the fine his last best chance at being numb to the fact that the only person who would be wishing him well this year hated him most of the time. Certainly right now. He glanced over at Simcoe. The road was longer in the night. They would never make it by before last call. With each passing step, he fretted as to whether they would make it at all.

“Who would you kill?” Simcoe asked lightly after allowing several minutes to pass in brooding silence.

“Pardon?”

“We’ve been thrown out of a party,” he said as he ran a tally on his fingers, “spoken to as if we were children, attacked by so-said professional entertainers, robbed by the authorities, forced to listen to some of the worst music ever recorded, and gotten ourselves into a rather one-sided physical altercation,” he smiled on reflection. “I’ll give you your lack of ale, but in nearly every other respect, this evening was classic Andre. So let’s have it.”

“I, ah – I did everything to discourage your mad bloodlust, to be fair.”  

“Right. You are an example of restraint. Dull though your newfound sense of moral righteousness must be for you, I again fail to see how you seek to fault me for it.”

Hewlett attempted to protest every aspect of Simcoe’s assertion. He choked on his reply.

“In keeping with our theme, Andre likes to fill the lulls in conversation with armchair philosophy, so, I’ll ask again, who would you kill?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“If you had to choose.”

“Whoever thought to throw himself in front of the last train we could have taken out to Long Island at the stop before ours. That is who I would kill.”

“And here I’d thought we had something almost special,” Simcoe lamented.

“You would murder me if given the chance? Great minds, John. Great minds. I’m my own second choice.”

“Usually I’m everyone’s first.”

“How many times have you played this exactly?”

“Enough to have arrived at the conclusion that these would-be salons are pretentious and overrated.”

“I still wish I’d gotten to attend,” he confessed. “I’ve been in this city for years and he only invites me once, right before I’m set to leave at that. There is a certain injustice to it.”

“I always answer with you name. The who would you kill question. Try to drop a subtle hint where I can. Sorry it never worked out.”

“I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Comes from the heart,” he paused. “And I do mean it.”

Hewlett sighed, convinced by a hubris that never otherwise presented itself to his psyche that he could sort Simcoe if it should ever come to it.

“I’ll miss you, too,” he said without inflection.

“Bullocks.”

Too tired and too honest to argue, Edmund Hewlett soldiered on through the night he could not help but blaming the entirety of on his companion. He considered the plans he would have otherwise had had he never received the e-vite that had four hours prior dropped its hyphen and taken on a verbal form. Holidays were simply meant for revising, making small talk with the host family over a dry supper, retiring early to grade papers, revising further, waiting for a call or text experience told would never come, and ultimately falling asleep while watching a film on the computer. Somewhere in there, he’d rather hoped cider or something stronger might make an appearance. When he had explained this, he had been met with belittlement and something approximating pity. Hewlett guessed that Simcoe’s plans would have otherwise resembled his own. They might have both done better to have kept with tradition.

“Stop,” he pleaded as he watched the ginger gesture for the first approaching vehicle they had seen on this road to halt.

“It is ten-thirty, mate. If we continue at the pace your wee legs can travel, we’ll not make it to DeJong’s before dawn. The thought of dear Ms. Strong spending the holiday alone -”

“I doubt she is alone as you suggest. They would not be open if they had no customers.”

“Why are you always so hesitant?” Simcoe demanded. “You have another hour and a half of being statistically young; embrace it for fuck’s sake.”

The car pulled to a stop a few metres ahead of where the stood.

“Where are you headed?” a voice shouted from the open window.

“We are going to Setauket,” Simcoe piped cheerfully as he approached.

“We are going to be murdered or held hostage or both,” Hewlett muttered.

He was given no choice but to follow. It seemed that Christmas could be made worse after all.


	2. 6:00 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben wants to prove his charitable nature; Simcoe and Hewlett pose a challenge.

There were certain pitfalls to being the son of a preacher. When he had taken girls home in high school, the painting of the Lamb of God that hung in the Tallmadge family foyer had proven a deterrent to intimacy. In his adult life, friends and co-workers watched their tongues in his presence. Topics were often dropped when he entered the room. The issue was, as it has always been, and, as he considered, it might well always remain, that everyone expected Nathaniel Tallmadge’s son to live up the increasing impossible ideal of constantly conducting himself as a good Christian ought. Ben, for his part, often found that the word of law stood between reality and expectation.

Not, he decided, on Christmas Eve.

When he saw two hitchhikers drugging along an ill-lit road on the Holy Night, he did what he personally considered benevolent though he knew it to be illegal and offered the poor travellers a lift. Upon recognizing the pair from a series of misdemeanours that had occurred on his beat throughout the course of the evening, he felt his faith was being tested. Ben opened his car door to the Englishmen hoping that with the simple charity he would be opening their hearts to God, as his reverend father would expect of him.

That afternoon, he had volunteered to work an extra shift, one that despite being initially dull had proven among the more interesting of his career with the NYPD thus far. As a detective, he was rarely afforded the chance to don his uniform. As such, he had come to find that a certain level of hazing and resentment could be expected from the very colleagues he meant to help over the holiday. Ben was awarded a relatively quiet, affluent neighbourhood to patrol, something that afforded him no great respect from the boys who were always in blue. The evening began with dispatch phoning in a series of ‘urgent reports’ concerning champagne that had not been properly chilled, caviar served with metal spoons, and other such societal faux pas he had been astounded to learn existed. Bored in his squad car, Ben searched the system and found that all of these incidences had been lifted from past 911 calls made from the very block of the Upper East Side he had been stationed to. He questioned if he had done anything in particular to offend his chief recently.

When dispatch later advised him to be on the lookout for two redcoats potentially armed with black powder, he assumed his respected colleagues had grown more creative in their pranks.

If only, he mused hours after his shift had ended, driving the suspects to a bar on the edge of nowhere rather than to the cell he still heard calling for them in names he had yet to learn.

“So,” the inspector asked after five minutes of listening to the hitchhikers quarrel over something they considered sport and he considered decidedly European, “what’s with the costumes?”

“We were meant to be attending a masquerade,” the man in the backseat muttered.

“We were meant to be attending a Bacchanalia,” his friend corrected with marked distain.

“Saturnalia.”

One-upmanship seemed a recurrent theme. Ben regretted having asked. He looked at the GPS on his dashboard and saw that he could anticipate twenty minutes of pretention before deliverance. He considered he might need a beer himself by the time they arrived at their destination.

“No,” the man in the passenger seat said as he reclined it further, causing his companion to resume in his complaints about legroom. “I’m sure someone up there is having sex with a goat. Stop acting as though you’re the only bloke to have ever read Asterix.”

“I … I have an A-level in Latin -” the redcoat began to object, apparently insulted by the accusation that he had obtained the wealth of his information about the Romans from a French comic as Ben had as a teenager.

“Nineteen,” he whispered to himself in place of a proper prayer. The bickering continued.

“Yet you seem to know nothing of the past,” the ginger’s grating voice rose. Turning in his seat and turning his attention, he asked “Inspector, do you know what I am dressed as?”

Ben had minored in history as an undergraduate at Yale. Life since had rarely afforded him an opportunity to display his knowledge of or discuss his keen interest in the past. He would take what he could get.

“Queen’s Ranger?” he guessed.

“Right you are! Take note, Oyster. Americans know history. You might have done better to have researched -”

“You accuse me of ignorance, sir?” Oyster replied, indignant.

“I say only that you know nothing of the sorted past of the land you are in and the culture it has created. Truly, I can’t take you anywhere. I can’t be seen with you. I’m glad we will soon be parting ways.” Turning to address Ben again, he continued as he tapped against the stereo, “Tell me, Inspector, were I to push this CD in right now, I’d be subjecting us to Lin-Manuel rapping about shots, would I not?”

“In fact you would.”

“American History, Oyster.”

“Simcoe,” a whine came from the backseat, “stop talking about alcohol until I’ve gotten some inside of me. Stop talking about history as though you have any particular steak in it.”

“Are you a tourist, then?” Ben responded. He had assumed from their prior run-ins that both men had immigrated. Furthermore, DeJong’s was an odd destination for a holiday, the sort of place that only the locals knew and did not speak of with any degree of love or pride.

“No,” Oyster affirmed.

“Practically,” Simcoe snapped, then sulked, reclining ever further. Ben pushed his original cast recording into the CD-Player, half-pitying Oyster and the legs he was about to learn would no longer be using to play soccer.

 

* * *

 

Four hours earlier John Graves Simcoe had first learned of the impending departure. It cut him like a knife through his chest - a sensation, he noted, which he had recently experienced in a literal sense, also at Edmund Hewlett’s hand. As he reflected upon their shared past, he did not know why exactly he found it surprising that the man he was often forced by proximity to think of as his best friend planned to leave the country with barely a word. To leave him alone in New York. So much for honour.

“That is not regular army though, is it?” Hewlett asked with a sneer when they met one another in the lobby.

“No,” he smirked. “I’m an elite solider, something you’d not understand.”

“You’re a shite, you are. This was our last chance for comradery and you change your mind without being so good as to inform me.”

“What do you mean with _‘last chance’_? Are we breaking up over this, Oyster?” Simcoe taunted. Hewlett stepped back, squinting as his slightly lopsided jaw dropped in disbelief.

“Ah, why must you … Christ,” he sighed. “I’m leaving after my dissertation. You know this.”

He did not.

“Leaving … America?” he clarified slowly, cultivating each syllable.

“I’ve told you multiple times,” Hewlett insisted. It was difficult to take the angry little man seriously whilst he wore a powered wig. _No, he is not leaving. He is just having a laugh, as I am,_ Simcoe concluded, unable to comprehend or except the realities of the redcoat’s life outside of their rivalry. _He is just bitter that I’ve the better costume,_ he continued to assume, staring Hewlett down until he began to back away.

“Edmund … when you talk. You make it such a challenge to listen.”

“John,” Hewlett threw back as if familiarity was an insult. “I had a party at mine last week. You were in attendance. I said goodbye to our entire team. You all signed my jersey. You, you yourself wrote _‘travel safe’_ How … even if you’ve somehow tuned me out for the past several months – how did that escape you?” he asked, pressing the button for the lift.

“I thought we were celebrating your assist that lead to us winning the half-season.”

“Why would we be celebrating an assist when Wakefield got a hat trick?”

“Because you are one of the most conceited people I’ve ever met?” he suggested. Hewlett shrugged. Simcoe felt his composure crumble. “Leaving!” he shouted when the doors to the small metal room shrieked shut and they began their long assent. He grabbed Hewlett by his lapels. Pressing him against one of the walls, he demanded, “What am I going to do with defence? Tell me that.”

“Defence,” Hewlett echoed, bemused.

Of all the ways in which they knew each other now and had known each other over the years, it was easiest for Simcoe to acknowledge and address their relationship on the pitch. He captained an association club on the weekends and when it otherwise suited him. Hewlett, he admitted - begrudgingly on occasion – was one of his better players. Although Simcoe would never admit it, sport was the only area of their understanding in which he played the authoritative role. Hewlett, he saw, sought to rob him of that by quitting. So much for honour.

“Recruit,” he replied – calmly - as though it were simple.

“Americans all want to play striker,” he asserted. He knew this to be only partially true. Americans did not want to play ‘soccer’ at all, and when they were made to, they all wanted to score. Recruitment would prove impossible under the best conditions and Simcoe simply did not have the spare time to dedicate to intimidating near strangers into playing a position they fundamentally did not understand in a game they did not enjoy. On the other hand, perhaps he would without Hewlett being around to form base vendettas against.

“I’m not sure what to tell you. I’m not sure you are listening to me now,” Hewlett spat as he lightly kneed Simcoe in his side. Simcoe released him. Hewlett stepped away, coward that he was.

“I am listening,” Simcoe mockingly insisted. “It is the uniform. It gives you a certain air of authority.”

Hewlett smiled at himself, brushing his lapels smooth as he turned to admire his reflection in the mirror on the back wall. Simcoe rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

“I am really not sure what about ‘redcoat’ you found so unclear -” Hewlett continued at the door to the penthouse as though he expected that _any_ uniform could continue to play a role in their friendship after his little announcement of his intent to depart, and presumably never don their team’s kit again. Simcoe was still livid. He refused to respond.

Instead, he knocked again. For the fifth time in as many minutes. He could hear voices from within, chattering over terrible music he guessed the phycologist he saw do to a court order had composed himself. Unsure if he felt second-hand embarrassment or schadenfreude, he turned to his companion and inquired, “Pub then?”

“Pub?” Hewlett asked as though he was unfamiliar with the word.

“Yea.”

“It is Christmas Eve; we would have needed to make a reservation in October.”

“DeJong’s. I meant.”

“Ah … yes. Yes. I assume they have open. I know they have been planning to serve supper there for about a week. For what that is worth, you could likely still get a table, I’d imagine.”

The food was infamous. Simcoe was more interested in a certain member of staff. He would be sitting at the bar. “Bloody hell, what are we doing here then?”

The door opened at along last before Hewlett could reply. The good doctor’s expression reflected Simcoe’s mood.

“What is this?” John Andre asked.

“Ah! Dr Andre.  Happy Christmas! Thank you so much for-” Hewlett started, presenting him with the bottle of wine he had brought. Simcoe held up a bag of fireworks he had bought in New Jersey during the summer. Andre held up his hands.

“I’m not letting you in here dressed like that.”

“Would it help if Hew lost the wig?” Simcoe jested, grabbing at the bag wig against the smaller man’s protests.

“There is a very strict dress-code,” Andre continued, unamused. He himself wore a tuxedo. Again, Simcoe was unsure if he felt second-hand embarrassment or schadenfreude. Andre was over-dressed in imitation labels as always. He glanced quickly at Hewlett. Their costumes were far superior.

“What are you mean to be, a butler?”

“A host.”

“Yea … No one is going to get that.”

“Simcoe,” Andre hissed, “You pale fool, this isn’t a costume party.”

Without blinking, Simcoe pulled out his mobile and brought up the invitation he had received two days prior. Wondering briefly when he saw the date if Andre had sent it as an act of politeness, assuming he had other plans and would thus not show up to show him up with a better outfit, he pointed to the words _‘fancy dress’_ , bolded in the first line.

“This is America,” Andre stated.

“America,” Hewlett echoed with distain.

“You might have made that clear in your instructions,” Simcoe suggested.

Andre grabbed the door handle in a motion to close it. Simcoe grabbed the wine back and shoved it into Hewlett’s hands.

“You can come back after you’ve changed,” Andre offered.

“Change?” Simcoe challenged. “It is you who’ve changed.” Glancing back at his bewildered companion he added, “You’ve both changed.”

“Andre,” he said after a pause, “did you know that Hewlett is leaving us?”

Disinterested, the doctor answered, “That is right, you have your dissertation on the twelfth, or?”

Hewlett spoke for a minute that felt like an age about what Simcoe supposed was astrophysics. He really did make it so very difficult to listen. Tapping his fingers against the doorway, he became increasingly convinced with every stammer and awkward pause that it was not in fact his fault that he had failed to internalize the information Hewlett swore he had given him at random intervals throughout the half-season. He was such a chore. Perhaps it was better to part ways. There were eight million people in the metropole; surely, he would be able find another two-footed defender among them, hopefully one who was not otherwise a useless rich kid who annoyingly fancy himself a scientist.

Andre unclenched his death grip on the door handle. Simcoe came close to blinking, astounded that whatever theoretical nonsense Hewlett had proven himself capable of reciting had done the trick.

“Robert!” Andre greeted, interrupting Hewlett mid-sentence.

Simcoe turned around, unsure how the overweight, aging Scotsman managed to move about with such apparent stealth. He was wearing the same work clothes he often donned at his construction site. Simcoe told him in Andre’s words that this was a _formal affair_. Rogers and Andre both proceeded to ignore him, exchanging insults in jovial tones in words that might cause a mass shooting should they be uttered on the street.

“What, ah – how? You let him in - dressed like …well …that?”

Andre did not reply, the answer already being apparent.

Simcoe would suffer none of it. “You are afraid of Robert Rogers then, are you?” he barked. “It is me you should fear.”

“Go home, change,” the man in the tuxedo responded, unintimidated and unimpressed. He shut the door.

 

* * *

 

“I think I am just going to go home,” Hewlett said outside, pulling a box of cigarettes out of his pocket wiping sweat from his forehead before lighting one. New York was experiencing a heat wave. Simcoe felt beads of sweat form on his own brow and missed the air conditioning. Warm as his costume was, he was grateful he had the sense to opt for one without a wig. He pulled at his ponytail, lifting it off the nape of his neck, noting that his hair had already begun to curl in the humid air. Hewlett, comparatively, looked downright miserable. Simcoe smiled.

“And do what exactly?” he asked as he patted himself down, searching for his own pack without success.

“Probably drink a whisky with Richard, retire, grade papers. Revise a bit. If I were to take the train back to Setauket now, shower, change, and come back, it would be nearly eleven by the time I arrived. I’ll just celebrate the way I do every year. Watch _The Lion in Winter_ and wait to see if my family decides to ring me back or if they -as I rather suspect- opt to send me a text instead.”

“Why do you need to take a shower?” Simcoe asked. His own plans involved going home, changing into sweatpants and deciding over the course of a beer if it was worth it to show up again at Andre’s in casual chic to rival that of Robert Rogers, if only just to get a reaction.

“It is 22 degrees outside and I am wearing a wig. I’ll need to wash my hair at least.”

“Keep it,” Simcoe shrugged. “Add shades. Say you are Karl Lagerfeld.”

“It is not a costume party.”

“Andre will be too drunk in an hour or so to know the difference. Fuck it, come to mine, drink a round, change into the clothes you have there or don’t and we’ll go back for a laugh. You can take a shower if you feel you must.”

“I’m not wearing jeans to a nice dinner,” Hewlett insisted.

“It won’t nice by any standard, that I can assure you.  Take a nod from Rogers and say you are Scottish formal. It is what I plan on doing.”

Edmund Hewlett, who sprung from the upper echelons of northern nobility, met him with a glare. Simcoe continued, “I’m not letting you go home though to be alone and watch something I’ve never even understood to be a Christmas film.”

“Ah – _The Lion in Winter_ is the very optima of Christmas spirit. A family gets together over the holidays, fights and feels no great obligation to keep in contact afterwards.”

From everything Simcoe understood about families in general and the Hewletts in particular, the explanation made sense. He wondered if Hewlett might also be able to advise him whether _Life is Beautiful_ or _It’s a Beautiful Life_ was a Christmas classic and then to answer the all-important question of how. He wondered if he should rather draw attention to the fact (lest Hewlett later question why people were so put off by him) that he was, in essence, complaining about his large immediate family to an orphan who had lost his own to tragic and traumatic circumstances. It was not worth it. Instead, he replied, “Miserable.”  - To which Hewlett nodded, “Quite.”

“Then why are you going home?” he questioned.

“I’m graduating. I have a job lined up.”

“You have a job here.”

“That ends with the semester.”

“Oh.”

“Hm.”

“Then we will go back to mine -”

“I’m not going to attend-”

“Well, you are not going home either.”

“I think I am.”

“You’re not.”

“Why on earth does it matter to you?” Hewlett challenged.

It _mattered_ because Jesus Christ and Edmund Hewlett happened to share a birthday. It _mattered_ because he had not celebrated his own in years and Hewlett always made a point (asocial though he was) to see him on a day in which Simcoe might otherwise be given to depression. It _mattered_ because all of his other friends on this side of the Atlantic were at points in their lives where their holiday plans did not include him. It _mattered_ for a number of reasons he could not voice for reasons of pride. Ultimately, it _mattered_ because he would be alone in a foreign city soon enough, and refused being left to that fate while he still had another option.

“Edmund -” he started.

“I hate when you do that. We are not … ah, middle class.”

With that statement, Simcoe’s feelings of amity dissipated. His small lips twisted into a sardonic grin. He spoke.

“Hewlett. In a few hours, the forces of time will gift me with a wonderful opportunity to remind you of how very old you are and how little you have managed to make out of your life. You think I’ll let you deny me that?”

“People think it bad luck to have a birthday on a holiday but you’ve just proven the masses wrong,” Hewlett mused. “Those poor, poor souls who have to deal with so-said constructive criticism twice in a calendar year.”

“Constructive? I’m honestly just planning to quote _The Forty Year Old Virgin_ to you. That should be your holiday film of choice, now that I think on it.”

“You’ll forgive me when I decline.”

“Not when you tell me it is my last chance to engage in this particular pleasure.”

Hewlett lit another fag. “You really plan to stay here forever?” he asked with the nerve to sound wounded.

“There is a girl,” Simcoe replied. It was not the sort of thing he expected his sometimes-friend to understand. Hewlett was an insufferable narcissist, incapable of understanding what it was to be in love. Discussing women usually lead to mutual discomfort and mild nausea. Simcoe, however, had little self-control, and no one else to tell about his small but meaningful interactions with the exquisite Anna Strong – she of the pub he was suddenly reminded had open. He would stay in New York for all eternity if it meant that his dreams of the beer maid might someday be actualized. Someday rather soon, he thought. Two weeks ago, she had told him she had been granted a court date to finalize her divorce proceedings. For all the fault he could otherwise find with New York - it was built of hope, the very essence of which Anna supplied to his sustenance.

“Not this again,” Hewlett sighed. Predictably, Simcoe noted. He pressed on regardless.

“She came round last week.”

“Was she lost?”

“We had a moment.”

Hewlett rubbed at his temples. “Simcoe, lets us agree to a truce. We’ll go back to yours, change into something more twenty-fifteen, find some lesser party and drink ourselves blind. We will not speak of my decision to leave or yours to remain indefinitely. I won’t point out the flaws with your supposed love life if you agree not to remind me that I’ll _never_ be able to have one.”

Seeing he had touched a nerve, he offered, “I would own that were I a doctoral candidate in physics. Isaac Newton died a virgin.” Simcoe was not sure why Hewlett never brought this point up in his defence, keen as he was to force comparisons between himself and minds much greater. He had listened on several occasions to Hewlett’s claim that he had been named for Edmond Halley, when in truth he had been named after his father and a succession of other insufferable Hewletts to proceed them.

“Isaac Newton didn’t live in the age of internet porn.”

“I was trying to be encouraging.” It was not an outright lie, amusing though he sometimes found the utter lack of intimacy that partially defined his mate’s experiences. Hewlett could truly find a way to be bitter about anything. Simcoe returned his look of indignation with a waggish grin and small chuckle.

“No, you want to talk about Anna Strong and you want me to pretend to care,” Hewlett asserted.

“That too. Pub?”

“Not like this. Well change; take the train at 7:30 -”

“Wait,” Simcoe interrupted as he felt around the empty pockets of his costume, coming to the slow understanding that he had not just forgotten his cigarettes at home. “You still have a spare key, right?”

“In my sock drawer.”

“Why the hell don’t you have it on your key ring?”

“You gave it to me for emergencies and it is not as if I am just going to swing by your pad unannounced.”

Simcoe scoffed at logic he could not argue with as he felt his empty pockets again.

“Check your bag,” Hewlett suggested.

He did. John Graves Simcoe, for all of his careful planning, had packed nothing but an assortment of contraband explosives.

 

* * *

 

“And I suppose that is where you first entered into our little narrative then, Inspector,” Simcoe smiled.

Ben looked at the GPS on his dashboard. There were still ten minutes before the estimated time of arrival. No good deed went unpunished, it seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So … I’ve tried to educate myself as much as possible, but I, a barely practicing Muslim, know very little about the belief system I referenced in Ben’s POV. Do please be so kind as to let me know if you see any errors. I <3 you and your holiday.  
> Otherwise, there were a few allusions to history I’m imagining you don’t need defined. We’ve all read Asterix, have we not?  
> What else … I am thinking of making a **huge** cheat sheet for all of the sport references that often appear in my writing and just linking it every time such a term appears. Let me know if you have any interest and I’ll get to it. Being that a basic understanding of footy isn’t required to understand that emotionally stunted men can’t admit they _might actually miss one another_ though, I’m just … not going to do the thing this time.
> 
> Instead I am going to once again thank you for reading, wish you a wonderful Sunday, and invite you to leave comments and kudos.
> 
> XOXO – Tav
> 
> Up Next: Gunpowder, Unions, Cab Fare


	3. 7:30 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads try to break into Simcoe’s flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovely faces! In my desperate attempt to get this finished before I leave for Prague, I am uploading these last few scenes as they occur in real time (or rather, as I finish writing them.) I figure this bit can stand on its own, so as always, I hope you enjoy!

 Edmund Hewlett had long operated under the assumption that his family’s wealth would open every door for him. As with much of what he had experienced in America, reality disappointed this expectation. The obstacles he faced in the new world neither cowered to his name nor yielded to the hard plastic on which it was printed. Egalitarianism, as he had long ago concluded, was overrated. Rather than having created a fair and equal society, it seemed the colonists conducted their affairs within an ideology that made it impossible for anyone to accomplish anything in practice.

“Interesting that you seek to find symbolism in this situation,” Simcoe scoffed. “Christ, just let me try.”

“I’ve almost got it. Wait.”

“You have been at this for over an hour.”

Hewlett looked at his admittedly anachronistic watch. It was half past seven, meaning that they had already missed the train that would have shuttled them to Setauket before Anna Strong could serve whatever she imagined to be supper. This, however, was hardly Hewlett’s own fault. He had not been fiddling with Simcoe’s door for _over an hour_ as his friend implied. It had been closer to forty minutes. Forty minutes, which could have been better spent - were it not that John Graves Simcoe was so infuriatingly stubborn. For the entirety of the five-block walk they had taken from John Andre’s high-rise to Simcoe’s, Hewlett had tried to convince the enormous green-clad Christmas elf to simply ring a locksmith.

“Have you ever done this before?” Simcoe peeped in a tone that Hewlett supposed was meant to inspire fear and doubt, but instead made the monster sound like a spoiled little girl who had just been told she was not getting a pony from Santa. He surrendered his position all the same.

“Have you?” he barked back, letting go of the card. Simcoe gave him a little smile. Hewlett did not know if he was more annoyed by his companion’s confidence or the idea that he might be able to pull off a manoeuvre that had thus far eluded him.

Within ten seconds of Simcoe’s hand making contact with the debit card half-showed into the metal contraption keeping them from the luxuries of the twenty-first century, the thing split in two. They ought to have both anticipated this.

“I almost had it,” Hewlett scolded, “and now we’ve not even the option of phoning for help.”

“It was not an option before.” Simcoe insisted, going on to explain for what felt like the hundredth time that he refused to pay a holiday surcharge when Hewlett had a spare key to the place.

“Does us little good at present.”

“Dare you to suggest that I am at fault?”

“Ah - well yes. Yes perhaps I am. I know you spend much of your free time out in Setauket, but forgive me - it make no sense that I should have been bestowed the honour of having a key to your flat in bloody Manhattan. Why not give the spare to Andre who lives right down the street, or Akinbode who at least lives in the city?”

Simcoe shrugged. “Akinbode deserts when his immediate interests are not being met or he thinks himself inconvenienced. Andre does not let me touch anything in his home so I’d hate to give him the opportunity to handle my shit.”

“What _shit?_ Your flat defines minimalism.”

“I have a bed I don’t want him in and a set of utensils I don’t want him _anywhere_ near.”

“Utensils?” he clarified, wondering if Simcoe might have misspoke.

“Last time I was at one of his dumb little soirees, Philomena’s lover was there with his sons and Andre made me sit with them at the kiddie-table.”

“You are … oddly good with children,” Hewlett suggested, regretting having asked.

“They made me eat with a plastic knife and fork,” Simcoe replied dryly.

At this image, Hewlett burst out laughing. “No wonder you did not wish to attend. From now on, I’m going to consider this to be protocol. Peeved though I am at Andre, I’ll admit -”

“It happened once,” Simcoe interrupted, as though it made any sort of difference to his defence.

“You hospitalized a man with whom you were dining,” Hewlett stated plainly before muttering to himself, “Curious, that you should be invited back after such an incident. Forgiven so long as you use plastic cutlery. Whereas I, model of upstanding behaviour-”

“You struggle in conversation,” his sometimes-friend put forward. “You’re weird and it is easier just to leave you at home than to have to excuse you to strangers. I’m positive that is what Andre thinks of you. Why you never warranted an invitation.”

Honest though the assessment was, it hurt enough to force Hewlett back onto the defensive, “Excuse me, _I_ struggle? You stabbed a man, John.”

“I did, but this man, he sang the wrong song. Couldn’t listen to it. Needs must,” Simcoe replied dismissively.

“That still isn’t normal behaviour.”

“Glory, Glory, Man United,” he challenged, lip curling at the words he spoke.

“Fair,” Hewlett conceded.

Simcoe paused for a moment, glanced at the door that refused to open to family wealth and name, and then back at Hewlett himself. Unblinking. He slowly traced a line down his chest before he spoke.

“It is all a rather rich criticism rather rich given the source. You’ve stabbed … me for less.”

This was not entirely true, but Hewlett was fairly confident to Simcoe would find a way to kill them all with a plastic Spork if he did not find a means to change the subject before tensions escalated further. “I … ah,” he stammered. “I have an idea. Speaking of materials that can easily be weaponized and therefore should not be in your possession, give us the fireworks?” He forced a grin.

“You are going to blow up my door?” Simcoe inquired, sounding almost intrigued.

“If done correctly, I’m only going to blow up the lock.”

He responded with another extended blank stare. Hewlett worried that the misuse of explosives had played a role previously in Simcoe’s volatile existence.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“We couldn’t break in with a credit card and now you want to use fireworks?” There was no judgement in his voice, but rather, Hewlett feared, something close to admiration. He felt the sudden urge to defend his line of thought.

“Your money is inside that apartment, the only way we might have retrieved mine is via the card that you broke. Without cash, we are stranded. Have you an alternative suggestion?”

“Have you ever done this before?”

“I wrote my doctoral thesis on propulsion and aerothermodynamics,” Hewlett smiled, genuinely this time. “If I can launch and land spacecraft, I can get us into this house.”

“I don’t believe those things are comparable.”

“There not … ah, in a manner of speaking; still, I can assure you with absolute certainty that .5 grams of black powder will prove sufficient to break the lock without causing enough of an explosion to alert security or damage the door itself. Um, you’ll still need to ring a locksmith I’d imagine -”

“If you can launch and land spacecraft,” Simcoe retorted, “you can swing by Home Depot and buy me a replacement.”

“That is fair, I suppose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading – comments and kudos are always, appreciated, never necessary. With any great luck and little skill, I hope to see you again in a few hours with an Anna POV and (even later) yet another Simcoe one.
> 
> Up next: Joyce forwards a photo to the wrong chat group causing a stir at Anna’s Christmas party.


	4. 8:30 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile at DeJong’s …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Slight_ sexual content warning.

“Thirty-eight,” Philomena Cheer announced in defeat as she deleted a compromising photograph from the phone her date did not know how to operate. “Moron sent it to the whole damn team, meaning that that bastard John Andre has officially received double the dick in his phone today than I have. Honestly, what is the point of being famous?”

The point _might_ be to lend one’s celebrity to a good cause, but Anna Strong did not mention to her guest that rather than drive out to DeJong’s Tavern in the Beamer the paparazzi knew the Broadway starlet to own, she had opted to ride in Robert Roger’s work truck to elude their attention. The two women had had this conversation before after Philomena had shown up at Robert Townsend’s restaurant and the place had become, much like she herself, something of an overnight sensation. DeJong’s was _‘special’_ , she had insisted. It was not the sort of place she wanted to see ruined by the so-said in-crowd. ‘ _In other words_ ,’ Anna had heard, ‘ _it is not the sort of place I want anyone to see me in._ ’ Perhaps if Philomena could convince a few of her fans to start frequenting the bar, Anna would earn enough to make necessary repairs to the property. Her boss had long ignored basic upkeep, despite Anna’s protests that supplying the guests with a squirt of hand sanitizer did not make the broken bathroom sink any less of a health code violation.

She exhaled, blowing a stand of hair that had escaped her bun off the tip of her nose. It was pointless. No one ever seemed to listen to her at all.

“Nineteen is a decent haul,” the tavern’s other bartender on duty responded as he handed the party crashers leftovers from the $6.99 holiday dinner he had presumably just pulled out of the microwave. Rogers inhaled the plate before him. Philomena wrinkled her nose slightly as she struggled to cut the tiniest morsel of flesh one could pin with a fork from the bone. Anna pretended this had nothing to do with her cooking.

“Annie, you might want to check on the cake. When I was in the kitchen I think I smelled smoke.”

Anna did not doubt this assertion. The odour could have been coming from any number of things in the back she did not feel it wise to announce in front of paying customers.

“I just put it in,” she reassured him behand a clenched-teeth smile. “I set the timer. The cake will be done when it goes off.” The cake came from a box that included instructions, which was more than she could say for the frozen turkey or the canned vegetables, which - as she had been told throughout the course of the past hour- took true talent to screw up (as one evidently only needed to remove them from the tin and heat them in a pot.) Betty Crocker, however, was destined to be her saving grace. Anna had prepared the batter exactly as instructed and had even been mindful to grease and flower the baking pan. Once her guest tasted it she would no longer be subject to whispers of _‘that is why she could not keep a husband’_ from people wretched enough to spend their holiday lining Martin DeJong’s pockets. 

Sighing again, she left Caleb to man the bar as she took a walk around the house to see who needed a refill. Twenty minutes, seventeen pints, three pats on the rear, and one near break-up later, she re-joined her friends who were still carrying on about what the socially acceptable amount of dick to appear in one’s phone on the eve of the birth of their Lord and Saviour truly was.

“Yer husband doesn’t want to talk numbers with me, Mena, all I am saying.”

“Caleb,” Anna hissed. “Lower your voice. Charles and John just stopped fighting.”

“Wheras yer holiday spirit, lass?” Rogers asked. “Ay, Robeson!” he turned to shout. “If yer still smartin’ o’er yer man’s bits and pieces come ‘ave some cheer. It ain’t as though ta case worker gon show up unannounced o’er Christmas, innit?”

“Not only do you bring a man to the pond but you encourage him to drink?” Philomena shook her head before requesting another round of ale.

“If ta problem persists he’ll not be movin’ out unannounced, unlike some treasonous strumpets.”

From what little Anna knew of the situation, Philomena had briefly lived in Robert Rogers’s halfway house of questionable accreditation a decade before after being priced out of the city. A few months later, she had given up the gig of pretending to be addicted to methamphetamines in order for Rogers to receive a check from the state for her care. She married John Andre to give him legal residency status and to, in exchange, take up residence in his borrowed penthouse. Anna glanced at John Robeson and Charles Joyce, whose argument over the dick pics the latter had taken in the tavern’s bathroom and accidently forwarded to the entire association football team they both played for had been reignited by Rogers’s offer of turning a blind eye to booze. The scot had likely been worried that the two would one-day fall into the same sort of English-American understanding that had previously robbed him of a resident. He was an arse. It was Christmas. Everyone deserved merriment where they could find it.

“Another comment like that and I _will_ cut you off,” she warned. Rogers responded with something unintelligible. Caleb laughed and Philomena shrugged.

Anna looked around the restaurant. Half of her guests were escapees from the very soiree John Andre’s two archenemies had fled together. She herself had once attended one such bash and had decided by the end of the night that it was not quite her scene. Maybe the trick to enjoyment was to leave before things got out of control. Maybe that was in itself the secret to popularity and success.

Then again, maybe the secret was having beer on tap. Rogers and half of the other members of the team Andre managed, had arrived with the sole complaint that only wine was being served. They seemed happy here, now that the food had been forgotten. Anna smiled to herself. She loved her job. Though she had no way of knowing it at the time, she was hosting the first holiday party in a series that would transform into tradition; and in a roundabout way, the penes that had been texted to John Andre would lead to her owning the bar outright within a few short months.

“You think Hewlett and Simcoe will show at some point?” she asked after running a tally of missing regulars. “The timer for the cake is going off,” she clarified when Cable met her with wide eyes. “I was only asking if I should set a plate aside for them while I am back there. Everyone else seems to be here.”

“Are you trying to kill them both in one go?” a guest asked. Anna would have responded had her co-worker not grabbed her.

“Annie, that isn’t the timer,” Caleb said, “That is the fire alarm. I told you the damn cake was burrin’.”

“We have a fire alarm?” Anna blinked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an admittedly awful way to update a WIP. Deadlines, lovely faces, what can I say? The boys will be back next time and with any luck, Ben and beer will also make an appearance. Thanks for reading!


	5. 9:45 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chemistry, physical altercations, bad puns. The usual.

“I can’t believe you sent that photograph to my _entire_ family,” Edmund Hewlett hissed at him after hanging up the phone. Simcoe nudged the smaller man’s elbow off the armrest, stretching his long legs out into the thin aisle in a struggle for comfort. He glance around. They had been on the bus for less than ten minutes and had already managed to win the ire of most of the other passengers – something of an accomplishment, given the three screaming infants, the young woman dry-heaving over a break-up and the old man who’d shat himself on a heated vehicle with windows that refused to open.

No. Oyster’s hysterics had made _them_ the focus of a strong, holiday-specific hate; the sort of quiet rage born from the idea that everyone was otherwise meant to be jolly and jovial. Born from visiting relatives they did not wish to see, spending money they did not have on gifts that would be exchanged or returned; from hearing the same eight or nine songs on loop for over a month. Such was the Christmas spirit in the city that never slept. Hewlett, for his part, seemed immune to the added level of discomfort he was giving everyone by voicing the very aggravations the other passengers had all done so well to conceal in their hearts. He pushed him slightly, and would have made more of an effort to sedate his would-be drinking buddy had the passenger sitting behind them not come on the same idea.

Simcoe felt a knee meet the back of his seat. He turned to see a bi-speckled, middle-aged man with a fixed frown. Promising the stranger that he would not walk off this bus should the aggression continue; he reclined his seat slightly. The man stopped fighting. Comfortable, as much as one could be on a city bus that reeked of shite, Simcoe decided to afford Hewlett the comfort he clearly required and most certainly had not earned.

“There, there,” he said, awkwardly patting Hewlett’s synthetic white hair. “Christmas will be over soon.”

“You could have killed my little brother,” Hewlett spat, jolting himself away from the caress and resuming his objective to make the night as dark and cold as his soul seemed to be. Simcoe glanced out of the window on the other side of the crowded bus. Oyster truly did make it such a challenge to listen. He saw the other passengers were beginning to deafen themselves to Hewlett’s endless criticises as well. As cruel as New York had been to him in the past four hours, Simcoe could not help be to love New Yorkers as misery loved company.

He failed to see how issue could be taken with the SnapChat Story; the redcoat had after all spent a significant portion of their evening voicing his fears that his relatives would not ring him on his birthday. Simcoe had simply seen to it that they would. Some people were impossible to please.

“Stop being dramatic,” he interjected after allowing Hewlett to again work himself into a frenzy. “Gene is fine. Called me right after it happened. Said he wanted to call you from jail on taxpayer’s Euros that you might remember the interaction. Thought the whole thing hilarious, actually, especially the part where I sent a photo of you being chased through Times Square by those topless birds.”

“He got himself into an auto accident.”

“Was it my fault that he had been drinking? Or driving around looking at his mobile?”

Hewlett gave a small huff in place of a proper answer. Simcoe scoffed, yanking at the little curls on the side of the ridiculous hairpiece Hewlett was convinced suited him. He hoped the thing would go up in flames the next time his former friend and teammate tried to light another weak cigarette. If either of them had the right to be angry, Simcoe figured, it was him.

Two hours earlier, he had nearly be arrested for Hewlett’s attempted break-in after suffering an impromptu chemistry lecture given by the same man. He had been scolded for saving them from certain death, chased by union reps, robbed by the police, and forced to take public transit in its slowest form – all in an attempt to rescue Christmas for a redcoat set on ruining it. His reward had been Hewlett’s fully unwarranted anger. At least, he smiled to himself, on the other side of the Atlantic someone of the same cursed name and hideous face as his now mortal enemy would spend four to six hours in jail thanks to his heroic antics. Perhaps, Simcoe considered, the evening had not been a total waste.

 

* * *

 

After breaking the cardboard and cutting their way through the layer of salts ( _“Ah, in chemistry that simply means metal and non-metal atoms ionically bonded together – specifically strontium, calcium or sodium to judge by the price.”_ \- a detail Simcoe wished he could forget.) to arrive at the black powder (“ _The combustion of which interestingly doesn’t take place as a single reaction, it is a rather complex formula that has remained unchanged since the 1780s - 6 KNO3 + C7H4O + 2 S → K2CO3 + K2SO4 + K2S + 4 CO2 + 2 CO + 2 H2O + 3 N2.”_ – more of exactly what Simcoe did not need to know); they used a pin from Hewlett’s stupid wig to pack the lock full with explosive substance. They were about to light it when building security approached, demanding in harsh language to know what exactly they thought they were doing.

Hewlett, rather than subject the poor fuck forced to work over Christmas to the same level of dull detail he reserved for his friends, raised his arms in surrender, stuttering over Simcoe’s airy explanation that he had forgotten his keys inside the flat. The security guard, a man of a seemingly limited English vocabulary that restricted itself to expletives, reached into his back pocket. He aimed a stun gun at Hewlett, who to his credit, simply would not shut up.

In hindsight, Simcoe ought to have let him shoot.

Instead, he approached the man who had made the fatal error to engage rather than calling for backup. Grabbing the weapon and again explaining as delicately as possible that there had simply been a misunderstanding, he twisted the man’s arm behind his back, forcing the assailant to fall to his knees as he cried out to God and his mother for the torture to cease. Simcoe was disgusted. At most, the man would need to have his elbow pushed back into its socket. He doubted his actions would even leave a bruise. Hewlett barked his name excitedly as he watched this unfold. Smiling, Simcoe threw the stun gun over to him.

Hewlett simply looked at it where it fell.

Simcoe stared back. Had he been in a similar situation with Akinbode, he was certain that his companion would have fired, thereby allowing them to avoid all of what was about to unfold.

With the two Brits locked in a confused standoff, the security guard reached for his walkie-talkie (the superior weapon) and phoned in the incident in a gasp. Hewlett ran for the stairwell, perhaps the worst tactical manoeuvre one could have made. Simcoe saw no route was left to him but to follow.

 

* * *

 

They made it all the way to midtown before the little toy solider collapsed grasping his hands to his knees after placing the wine bottle on the pavement beside him.

“If only you could do that on the pitch,” Simcoe coughed, catching his own breath, surprised that in an adrenaline-fuelled charge, Oyster had not only outpaced him, but had retained the sense to remember the booze. He coughed, spitting out a wad of phlegm.

“You’d ought to quit smoking,” Simcoe cautioned.

“After my dissertation. My dissertation, which I _could have spent the evening preparing for.”_

He looked towards the heavens. Simcoe questioned if he was trying to see the stars or if he was silently imploring his invisible friends – Father, Son, and Holy Ghost – for the death that Simcoe was himself praying he would get through the night without being forced to deliver.

“Bullocks,” Simcoe corrected, still coughing to catch his breath. “You’d’ve spent the better part of the evening trying to impress the judge with your knowledge of humanities and annoying the rest of his family in the process. I should have left you at home. Ruin Woodhull’s Christmas and not my own.”

“You _should_ have come by mine. Mary likes it when we have guests. The sentiment between yourself and young Abraham is mutual and he would have amused us all with some juvenile fib as to why he could not finish his supper.”

“I _should_ have spent the evening with Akinbode. My Akin _bro_ de. As he would have had my back in the hallway back there. _Hewlett_ can’t be turned into a friendship pun for a reason, it seems.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“Jordan would have shot the bloke.”

“Which would have improved the situation how, pray tell?”

“It would have bought us enough time to blow our way into my flat, take my wallet and hire a car.”

Hewlett raised his finger as though he thought he had a point worthy of empathises. His long, flat lips opened, giving a strange temporary symmetry to his odd face, but he declined to speak. Instead, Simcoe watched him twitch as his eyes darted about, perhaps in search of the words that so often failed him when he was put in the position of having to defend his inaction.

“We could sell the wine,” he spoke with a falsified certainty.

“You think we can manage to do so without going into a needless explanation into the fermenting process?” Simcoe mocked.

Hewlett thought aloud, “I say - we trade it to a tired rose-seller for the remainder of his wears, and use our costumes as a gimmick to approach people. The bottle cost me $70, I won’t be able to earn more than $40 on resale, but we could double to price of flowers -”

“Follow me,” Simcoe interrupted. “I can improve upon that idea.”

“You think you can manage to do so without resorting to needless bloodshed?”

 

* * *

 

For twenty-five minutes, the pair enjoyed unprecedented celebrity. In Times Square tourists lined up to take a selfie with them, each more ridiculous than the last, each adding a twenty dollar bill to their purse. Within a quarter of an hour they had enough to hire an Über, in twenty they could have bought the whole bar a round upon arrival. They should have left before street performers who _‘were in it for the art’_ and who had _‘obtained the necessary licensing from the city’_ thought it their business to usher them away.

Simcoe, who worked in finance when he was not taking pictures in colonial garb with people who admitted they could not get tickets to _Hamilton_ but for some unstated reason wanted to visit the city anyway, ought to have taken into his account his friend’s problematic relationship with capital. Rumours often surfaced in the motherland that the Hewlett’s were not quite as well off as they perpetrated, and he knew that at on at least one occasion in Edmund’s youth the gossips had been right. As a result, young Edmund had been forced to become as much of a con artist as his lord father, adult Edmund found it difficult to abandon a scheme from which he was profiting. It was something no one in their circle was tactful enough to address. Left unchecked, this more negative aspect of his character caused easily resolvable situations to escalate on occasion.

Approached by an army of costumed performers, Hewlett stood his ground.

Having learned his lesson about coming to the aid of the otherwise weak little man, Simcoe backed out of the arena, laughing _“unleash the hostages”_ in response to Hewlett’s continuation to pose with tourists, stating that this be a _“fight to the death now.”_ Simcoe filmed and photographed the majority of what transpired next on his mobile, sending the least blurry of the images of the redcoat being pummelled by the mob to all whom he thought might share in his amusement.

 

* * *

 

 _“So I’ve been driving around for the past hour looking for a Quick as Fabie has a craving she states can only be satisfied with a double-cheeseburger or a divorce. But it is like, it is fucking three AM, mate. No one has open save for McDo, and she was pretty explicit in voicing her wants. Yea, so I’m here, driving about, wasting time, cursing meself for agreeing not to sign a prenup, when I get your text and FUCK, here I thought my night was a mess,”_ a voice told him over the phone ten minutes later.

“Are you by chance … drunk?” Simcoe inquired. It was not the reaction he had been anticipating. He looked back to the crowd, concerned that in the time he had spent in various apps he had lost the little man whose image he had been sending around for a laugh. He would not be that difficult to locate before their chariot arrived, he reasoned, standing on his toes to get a better view.

_“Ah yea, there is no way I should be driving. I bumped into the car in front of me – no damage that insurance won’t cover, mind – but the lady insisted upon ringing the police so now I’m just sitting here in me van, waiting for the authorities to come tell me I’m not fit to be behind the wheel and take me to a holding cell for the night. By the time they let me out Quick will either have decided to open or the wife will have forgotten her mighty need, either was, you might have just saved my marriage. So thanks for that.”_

“Your … welcome?” Simcoe attempted. He heard laughter on the other end of the line. “Hold up. Your brother just made it out of the melee. You want to talk to him? _Maybe wish him Happy Birthday?_ ” he suggested. Delicately. Gently. Perhaps too much so.

_“Nah, lad. I’ll use my call from jail to congratulate him. Make the taxpayer’s pay for it.”_

“I’m almost certain that the call is billed to the receiver,” Simcoe advised. Though never close, they had been in the same graduating class back at military boarding school. It was difficult for him to imagine that this was the youngest Hewlett’s first run in with the authorities.

_“Is it? Ah. That is rather curious.”_

“SIMCOE!” Hewlett shrilled as he marched towards him at a quickened pace. Simcoe gave a small smile and wave. Hewlett demanded to know why he had been abandoned when holding his ground against the enemy.

Simcoe held up his hand, patted Hewlett’s wig and mouthed to him the adults were talking. The redcoat took a step back, stupid and confused.

_“Still memorable though, innit? I’m sick of Eddy carrying on like none of us care about him. It is simply not fact. He is the one who up and left us, not that I blame him. Right. Yea. That’ll be the sirens now. Tell me brother I love him and I’ll call him after they take my photo and prints. Picture won’t be epic as his though. Well done there. Right, ring me next time you are in the civilized world and we’ll hit the down. But not Paris. Paris is awful. Cheers!”_

“Cheers,” Simcoe echoed. The line was dead.

Hewlett crossed his arms and clenched his jaw, looking at him as though he expected an explanation.

“Your brother says great costume and he’ll call you later from jail. Anna wanted to know if we wanted turkey and cake – I said yes. Joyce sent the whole team a lovely Christmas picture. Akinbode says we are all traitors for abandoning him and Abigail at Andre’s party which is apparently as lame as I promised you it would be – and our Über should be here in twenty.”

“Back up.”

“Oh, here,” Simcoe pulled up the picture in the group chat, knowing full well that was not the point he was being asked to elaborate on.

Hewlett shut his eyes and massaged his temples, “You know what. Twenty minutes. That gives us time to drown this and … and that.”

He shoved the phone away and pulled his keys from the breast pocket of his frock coat.

“That model is for girls,” Simcoe said of Hewlett’s pink Swiss Army Knife keychain.

“How would a blade help us in this situation, John?”

“John?”

“If the evening has thought me anything it is that you are not my Sim _bro_ and I am not your Hew _lad_.”

“I hate you.”

“You told me my surname was not punable. Perhaps if you spent more of your spare time indulging in discussion of the humanities and less of it … stabbing people it would have been obvious to you as well. Perhaps we would have been allowed into the Andre party in the first place.”

As soon as the cork was free, Simcoe grabbed the bottle and took the first sip.

“Drink?” he asked, handing the bottle back to Hewlett as a uniformed police officer stepped out of his unmarked vehicle and approached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Quick_ is a Belgian fast food chain, headquartered in France.  
>  _McDo_ is French slang for McDonald’s.  
>  The chemistry was defined as much as it needs to be within the text. Or? Hit me up any time, I love talking about this sort of thing.
> 
> Things are looking pretty dark for the lads right now, no? Luckily for us all, we are almost done. Cross your fingers that I can bring this to a close tomorrow. 
> 
> Thanks as always for reading! Comments and Kudos make me smile.
> 
> XOXO- Tav
> 
> Up next: Have your cake and eat it, too.


	6. 10:50 PM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lads arrive at the bar. Anna Strong vs. Betty Crocker.

“No,” Ben Tallmadge admitted, “no injuries were reported. Much like your friend in the back, I don’t think the security guard was keen to admit he had met his defeat at the hands of adults playing dress up.”

An hour or so earlier he had passed up the chance to arrest them. As he drove into the parking lot of the now mythical DeJong Tavern, he wondered if he would have enjoyed the same account of the evening had he brought them back to the station. Had the two men not been able to pass a breathalyser and pay a fine in cash if he would most assuredly have spent his evening filling out paperwork, perhaps validating the authenticity of their visas. (Hewlett, otherwise known as Oyster, had been able to provide five forms of identification on the spot. Simcoe had nothing on him, but he had not been the one holding an open bottle in violation of public ordinance.) In around eight weeks, Ben would have a vague recollection of the opportunity the law he was paid to enforce had robbed him of, but for the moment, he was grateful that the redcoat’s willingness to comply without question had saved him from what he was sure would have been a rather long night at the office.

After their short run in had robbed them of an Über, Simcoe explained in the smooth, high voice that did not quite fit his build; that PayPal had been unable to process a further transaction. No longer in possession of enough cash to hire a taxi and no longer willing to enter the snake pit of street performers in attempt to earn back their losses, the two had walked to the train station. As was another unfortunate New York Christmas custom, a man threw himself onto the tracks minutes before their scheduled departure. Necessity had then forced them onto a bus whose final stop had left them on the edge of town. After walking for what felt like hours (though was - both men conceded in fairness to the forces of time - a mere fifteen minutes) Ben had been so good as to stop and give them a lift.

He knew it was a turn of phrase, but he appreciated it all the same. He was doing _good_ on the Eve of the Lord’s birth. Even if it put him into a legal grey area that he would later come to regret.

“Have you boys been saved?” he asked hesitantly as he parked. It was an awkward question to pose to near strangers; though one he had heard his reverend father ask on countless occasions. Ben reasoned that if anyone really ought to accept the love of Christ into their hearts tonight, it was his passengers.

“I was baptised shortly after my birth and raised in the Kirk,” Hewlett replied. Ben wondered if he was an otherwise religious man, or if he had become accustom to people approaching him on public transit with pamphlets marketing their various religious organizations. Perhaps it was the sort of thing scientists were asked frequently. He might have inquired further had Hewlett’s companion’s immediate response not been, “Oh bloody hell! No!”

Ben cleared his throat, sitting up a bit straighter.

“Ah, you’ll have to understand Inspector, Simcoe is a demon. It is best you not go down this path.”

Simcoe, for his part, seemed to be ignoring them both entirely.

“Oyster, look who is here.”

A tall man with long hair, a colour approaching somewhere between blonde and brown stepped out of a taxi. He was dress for a night at the opera; Ben was surprised to see the cab drive away, leaving him at DeJong’s, clearly misplaced.

“I’ll kill him,” Hewlett muttered.

“I think it best you leave that to me.”

Ben locked his doors. The cop took over for the Good Samaritan.

“I’m afraid I cannot let you leave this vehicle if I have due reason to believe-”

“With every respect Inspector, that man is to blame for all of the ills that have befallen us this night. Well, many of them. I cannot hold him directly responsible for Hewlett’s cowardice.”

“To clarify, though Simcoe broke my debit card, attacked a man for doing his job, came up with the ludicrous plan to -”

The man from the taxi turned and gave a slight nod of disinterested acknowledgement. Ben considered for a moment the series of reports he had gotten in the early evening; that much like the other societal faux pas, a misphrased invitation had resulted in the misuse of NYPD resources and nearly ruined his night. Off duty and not directly in his jurisdiction, he decided -as he had in picking Simcoe and Hewlett up from the street- to simply act as a good Christian ought. Ben Tallmadge would turn the other cheek.

 “Keep it outside” he warned as he unlocked the doors.

 

* * *

 

“Me thinks _‘Fuck the Police’_ has taken on a new meaning,” Charles Joyce remarked from his table by the door after watching Caleb Brewster pour five pitchers of beer and mix two cocktails without taking his eyes off the man whispers identified as a cop. In the presence of the detective inspector, everyone in the bar sat up a little straighter, spoke in soft tones and in polite language, as though they were at the party they had fled rather than in the local tavern. Everyone that was, save for Caleb, who seemed to be running through his entire comedic repertoire, and Joyce’s boyfriend, who was standing by the window, giving a play-by-play of the action unfolding outside.

John Robeson looked back at the bar and smiled, noting the words printed on Brewster’s black tee shirt.

“Why is it quiet? What is going on? Robeson?” Anna called from the kitchen.

“Don’ fret lass,” Rogers answered. “Before it gets ta drawin’ blood I’ll intervene. Anyone gon’ be standing o’er ol’ John’s bloodied, bloated corpse it’ll be me.”

“Anyone want to put odds on this thing?” Robeson asked to whispers of gambling being illegal. The copper seemed too memorized by Caleb and his wildly exaggerated accounts to pay the betting pool any mind.

“Two hundred on tae ging’,” Rogers answered.

“Fifty that he finishes the pair,” Uncle Lewis added. No one knew whose uncle Lewis was exactly, or if he was anyone’s. Setauket was either a true backwater or its residents all held the old farmer in affectionate regard. Perhaps both. The poor bastard looked as he was ready to fall off his barstool. Philomena Cheer rose from her perch and helped him back to the booth by the makeshift stage where she had been attempting to set up the karaoke machine.

“Can I get two coffees?” Philomena called out, pointing to herself and Uncle.

“What is going on?” Anna demanded with a greater sense of urgency, leaving the kitchen with a metal baseball bat in hand.

“Is that how you killed the turkey?”

“Is that how we are all going to die?”

“Might be,” Anna smiled. The room fell silent. Anna tapped the bat against her open palm, pleased with her half-spoken threat until she, too, saw the door creaking open.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be? Rudolph the Redcoat Reindeer?” Caleb laughed as Hewlett limped inside. It was not bad, Joyce admitted. Still, he had to wonder how long Caleb had been planning that one. Everyone in DeJong’s had seen Simcoe’s SnapChat by now, surely.

“Sure,” Hewlett responded. “But dare you venture a guess on what Simcoe here is meant to be?”

“Queen’s Ranger?”

“Did he tell you?” Hewlett responded, utterly flabbergasted as he gestured towards the cop.

“Might’uve.”

“Tonight we’re drinking on Andre,” Simcoe announced, indicating to Hewlett and himself. “And here you all were taking bets on our lack of civility. I assure you, it is easier to appeal to my sense of reason than you imagine.”

“Hewlett!” Anna Strong cried when he approached the bar, letting the overhead lights hit his lightly scratched face. “You had me so worried.” To a chorus of _ooohs_ , Anna leaned over and kissed his cheek. Hewlett took a step backward (and presumably smiled) as he replied lightly, “Ah, I … I feared for you as well.”

“Me?”

“There is ah, how to put it delicately. Perhaps it is better that I be direct, in this case. Anna, Ah, Mrs. Strong … there seems to be smoke coming from the kitchen.”

Anna turned around, “Oh that,” she forced a laugh, “that is just the microwave. I shouldn’t use it to reheat coffee.”

“You are cooking this in the microwave?” Robeson, who Joyce had talked back from the bottle asked in accusatory tones as he pointed at his own mug.

“Can you taste a difference?” Anna snapped back.  Returning her attention to the newcomers, she said with a smile, “Dinner is ready. What can I get you gentlemen to drink?”

Andre ordered a port as he strode in. Simcoe continued to stand in the doorway, looking dejected, injured and betrayed. Looking as if he now had designs on Hewlett’s life that could not be purchased with a few rounds.

Before joining the others at the bar, Simcoe knocked on the table and gave Joyce a too-knowing smile. Knowing what it was in reference to, his face flushed once more.

 

* * *

 

“It was milk chocolate, now it is dark chocolate. Technically … healthier,” Anna suggested as she stood in the tavern’s messy kitchen, looking woefully at the smouldering ashes of her short-lived dreams.

“It is a disaster, Annie. I’ve called for backup,” Lifting up the lid to the metal rubbish bin, already half-full of packaging and half-eaten meals. It was not that Anna Strong hated cooking; it was that everything she happened to find worth eating could be prepared in five minutes or less through a simple one-step process of adding milk or boiling water. DeJong’s rarely sold food, and when, it was usually something she could cook in the microwave. The kitchen was not itself prepared to handle much else.

“Backup?” she asked, feeling even more defeated.

“After Abbie puts Cicero to bed she’ll swing by with a replacement.”

Anna sighed, “You know, you didn’t have to do that.” He should have known better. Abigail, like Caleb, had a full time job that had nothing to do with pouring beer for minimum wage. She did not mind helping out, as Anna’s meagre budget did not cover the cost of hiring anyone else, but Abigail expected her life to retain a certain order. Order she undoubtable resented having interrupted because the oven could not handle the baking of a simple cake. A cake that have come with simple instructions. In a pan Anna had been mindful enough to grease and flour.

“Don’t worry; she’ll come round the back. The door is unlocked, no one will know.”

“What is the point? I hear what they are saying out there. But it’s not … it is not my fault, Caleb. Bastard just sprung this on me. What was I to do? The oven only works if it is turned up to full heat. I’ve tried to calculate reduced cooking times for everything. I tried telling Mr. DeJong that we need to fix it. A thousand fucking times at least-”

“Hey, hey. No one is blaming you.”

“The only people who liked my food were the Englishmen who can’t taste the difference,” she pouted.

“I liked the turkey.”

“What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

“Cup of Noodles at around noon. Shrimp -Tabasco flavour. What are you getting at?” he asked, grabbing his belly before poking at hers.

“Such a gourmet,” Anna laughed as she backed up, knocking into the counter. Knocking half of its mess onto the floor. She bent down to deposit the rest of dinner’s debris in the rubbish bin where it belonged, smiling and shaking her head a bit.

“Well what about you, Princess? Fabergé egg?” Caleb asked as he bent down to help her.

“That’s not what you think it is.”

“I know what it is; what did you eat?”

“Cheerio’s.”

“With chocolate milk?”

“Of course.”

“See, no one here has a finer tuned palate than the two of us! Dinner was great … dessert can be improved upon. It was just too much menu for our little oven to handle,” he said rubbing her shoulder.

Anna bit her lower lip, stuck out her chin a bit and nodded.

“Why don’t you go ask your little boyfriend what he thought?”

“What _boyfriend?_ I didn’t want to say anything earlier, but you know how many dick pics I have on my phone, total? Two. One from my soon-to-be ex-husband, which shows only how old my device is because _that_ hasn’t been mine in a long, long time … and the other doesn’t really count either.”

“Please don’t tell me it is from Abe.”

“I have not entertained thoughts of that man since he broke off our engagement.”

“Really?”

“Since we had break-up sex two years after the fact,” Anna amended. “Still, he was never that … forthcoming.”

“You got me there. So, is it from Hewlett then?”

“ _Hewlett?_ Come on. It’s Anthony Weiner’s.”

“You too? Oh, that really doesn’t count. Shit. I forwarded half of my collection to Mena. I’d offer to do the same for you … expect now I know you’ve been hiding pretty boy out there from me-”

“He’s a cop, Caleb. You grow weed out of your uncle’s basement. What made you say Hewlett?”

“Betcha he is more fun than he looks,” Caleb winked.

“What made you say Hewlett?” Anna asked again.

“Oh! Edmund!” Caleb mocked, “I was so worried about you!”

“I didn’t sound like that.”

“You’re right,” Caleb agreed, repeating his imitation in an octane lower than his own. It sounded eerily similar to her own voice. Anna swallowed, slightly self-conscious.

“I did not know his first name until you just said it,” she defended.

“Well why don’t you go ask Edmund what he thought of the meal. Flirt a little. Show John how wrong he was to turn you down.”

“John ate the food too; I doubt he is regretting his decision.”

 

* * *

 

“Away an bile yer heid,” Hewlett said, rubbing his temples.

“Aye! Gaun yersel wee man!” Rogers smiled as he slapped him on the back. Hewlett looked up and grinned. For a moment, their eyes met and he continued to smile. He looked away as soon as he noticed her smiling back. He always did.

“They do this every so often,” Andre clarified when Anna brought a third pitcher to the corner of the bar. “I don’t know that there is a translation.”

“Rogers is attempting to re-educate Hewlett,” Simcoe explained drolly. “Did he tell you he is leaving us?”

“Are you planning a trip to Scotland … Edmund?”

“Edmund?” Hewlett repeated, finding the sound of his given name as strange as the two syllables felt on her lips. “Ah, only a brief one. Visit my mum before moving south.”

“Moving?” Anna asked. She looked at Simcoe, whose expression disappeared with the question. He looked at Hewlett without it seemed, actually looking at him. Without blinking. Anna felt a chill in her spine.

“I … ah, yes. I’ve the defence of my thesis in a few weeks, and a job lined up with the ESA provided things go to plan.”

“European Space Agency,” Andre smiled, “Our Edmund has done quite well for himself.”

“ _Your_ Edmund will remind you all in a few minutes that he is not,” Simcoe paused, “how did you put it Oyster? _‘Middle class’_?”

“I -”

“Because you’re sure as hell not _my_ Edmund,” he asserted as he filled his glass.

“But am I your Friend-mund?” Hewlett asked, reaching for the pitcher. He refilled the glasses of Rogers and Andre before toping his own off.

“You were. Once.”  Bad as the joke had been, Simcoe did not seem amused in the slightest. Anna wondered if this would escalate into something that would force poor DI Tallmadge to work the holiday.

Hewlett sighed, “It is not as though I am not going to visit, you know.”

“Really?” Andre inquired. He gave Hewlett a look of feigned interest that Abigail who worked nine to five as his practice’s head administrator described as _The Commission_. Eyebrows slightly raised, head tilted a bit to the right, Anna wondered if Andre heard in that statement grounds to prescribe a drug his office was being incentivised by pharmaceutical companies to push. She wondered what it would take to get the doctors to celebrate their bonus in her tavern as opposed to the chic restaurant under the Riverside Gazette.

She wondered if Hewlett and Simcoe were individually in therapy due to their strange co-dependencies. _Coe_ – dependent, she smiled to herself as Hewlett spoke.

“I’ll be back at the end of February.”

“Fer Valentine’s?” Rogers asked, toasting John Andre who was seated beside him.

“For _revenge_ ” Hewlett clarified. Turning his attention back to Simcoe, he continued, “You gave me a hell of a birthday, John. I’m now obliged to return the favour.”

“It is your birthday?” Anna gasped. She, like everyone else in Simcoe’s contact list, had been sent pictures of Hewlett being used as a piñata in Times Square. If he wanted to exact vengeance, she had half a mind to take him out back, teach him how to swing a baseball bat and save him ₤800 of plane ticket.

“Tomorrow.”

“In twenty minutes,” Simcoe corrected. “Congratulations Hew, you are almost a year closer to being as old as you sound.”

“The general conscious is that I’ve been fifty since birth,” Hewlett explained, directing a reassuring grin at her. He was fine. The beer was cold. She was good at her job. Her guests were happy, even if she did not quite understand their humour.

“Wig might have something to do with it,” Anna teased. Simcoe gave her a fist bump.

“Do you at least see, Miss Strong, why I could not let them into my party in such attire?” Andre asked, still wearing his commission look.

“I told you it was the wig,” Simcoe muttered.

“I don’t know,” Anna replied. “Seems your most of your party has moved here, and these two fit right in.”

“I wish we had you earlier to supply our defence,” Hewlett laughed.

“Well, I did study law. T’was my dream to use it to end bar fights.”  

“And now you’ve fulfilled it,” he answered. “Look, Simcoe. Some good has come out of all of this.”

“What happened after you left?” Andre asked.

“Why’d yeas leave at aul? Shud’jes shoved yer ways in.”

“It is a long story,” Simcoe answered. His fingers began to tap against the bar. Anna reached out for his hand to settle it. To her surprise it worked. Their eyes locked. He stared. At her. Through her. She could not tell. It made her feel as gross as his rejection had.

“Ending with you bring a cop into my bar,” she whispered to save them both face. “You know Eastin was banned for less.”

“Does that mean he can come back? It would be better for team moral.” Turning his attention to Hewlett, Simcoe admitted to Anna’s complete surprise, “I’m beside myself thinking about what I will do without you.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

“No you twat! I’ve been thinking about it. If Wakefield can fold back from midfield I can move Eastin to the right side.”

“Are you truly still on about this?” Hewlett spat.

As the four got into an argument about soccer, Anna excused herself. She was now determined to give Hewlett the best short-notice birthday party ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure of if any of you watch the news or not, but there was a terrorist attack in my capitol two nights ago. In wake of that, instead of asking for comments and kudos, I just want to ask you all to hold your loved ones a little tighter this holiday season as a means of fighting fear with love as we always should strive to.  
>  _Not to get preachy or political._
> 
> Anyway, there is only one (short) chapter to go!  
> Thanks for reading, XOXO - Tav
> 
> Up next: Christmas!


	7. 12:01 AM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas, cake, and kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! At the end. If you are interested, I posted a poorly drawn picture of Anna, Hew and the cake on Tumblr.
> 
> There may be a few _minor_ H+S spoilers contained in this chapter. In truth, I’ve amused myself by scattering them throughout, but you have to squint a bit less to see them here.
> 
> Thank you all again for reading! Frohe Weihnachten und einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr!

The party was in full swing. Anna and Abigail emerged from the kitchen having repurposed a holiday treat as a birthday cake by placing the only candle to be found in the tavern squarely in the middle.  Abigail gestured to Philomena, who abruptly began to lead the bar in a round of _‘For He's a Jolly Good Fellow’_. Edmund Hewlett, who had been arguing with his friends - or so Anna presumed - since she had left them to their own devices half an hour before, looked up at her and smiled. For the first time he did not turn his attention away when she smiled back. Instead, his smile widened. For a moment, the rest of the world vanished. For a moment, the world made sense. She placed the cake in front of him; he blew out the tall taper candle to a round of applause. The cheers grew louder when Anna announced that Abigail, rather than she herself, had baked it, causing her friend to blush slightly before making a small curtsey in response to the ovation she received.

“Ah, we’ve, or rather Andre here, has determined that it is best not to give our dear Simcoe actual cutlery. Have you by chance anything childproof?” Hewlett replied to Anna’s question of what he had wished for. It was easy enough for her to deliver. She handed John one of the plastic forks she was forced to use (as many of DeJong’s utensils were soaking in the kitchen sink after dinner) along with his portion of lemon cake. Simcoe thanked her all the same with a small peep before directing his attention back to the man of the hour.

“You wished to see me under-armed?” he taunted, “Well, it seems you are never getting your gift now, Oyster. You would have loved it.”

“You got me something?” Hewlett gaped. Anna too was surprised.

“I was going to bring it to Andre’s but it was still drying when I left.”

“What is it?” he grinned.

“Why do you care? I am keeping it now.”

Hewlett shook his head before reaching out to Anna as she was about to turn away. “Speaking of gifts, Ms. Strong -”

“Anna,” she corrected.

“Ah, Anna. Yes. Right. I’ve been thinking about your microwave, since you, since I came in rather. If you’ve any interest, I can offer you a replacement. I’ve an American model that won’t do me any good in the UK. If you want it, for the bar I mean.”

“That … that is really sweet of you, Edmund.”

His brilliant smile returned ever so briefly. Seeing Simcoe begin to sulk, his expression turned to guilt.

“Ah … well John, yes John here gave me the idea,” he lied, putting his hand on the surprised ginger’s shoulder. Simcoe blinked for the first time in his life. Hewlett nodded slightly in Anna’s direction. It was a kind gesture, but the redcoat must have had no idea how uncomfortable their situation had become. Two weeks before, after being given the court date for her divorce, Anna had shown up on John’s doorstep, feeling herself entitled to a night of fun. They had not seen one another nor spoken since his quick dismissal.  John turned towards her and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, “Madam.”   

Anna forced a smile. She took their now empty pitcher to refill it. “This one is on the house,” she said, hearing her voice crack.

“Ah, Anna, you needn’t -”

“Thank you kindly, Anna,” John Andre interrupted, grateful, she assumed, to save himself fifteen dollars from an already hefty bill.

With her back turned to them, what little attention Simcoe had for her seemed to drop completely.

“You know those horse-head masks that have not been cool for two years?” he asked. Anna’s heart sank. She wondered if it was just because he knew her to be in earshot. She wondered if he had ever truly felt anything for her at all.

“You bought me one?”

“I bought you the Pegasus one, cut off the horn, and painted the hole that was left with red acrylic so it looks like it was shot. Remind you of the good ol’ days.”

Hearing this, she wondered rather if there was something wrong with Simcoe specifically or the kind of man she felt herself attracted to in general.

“I love you too, mate,” Hewlett said dryly. Anna felt herself smile.

“Here, I took a picture.”

“You are deranged and this … this is brilliant. I will think of you every time I have to go down to get something out of my basement.”

“As well you should.”

 

* * *

 

He watched the exquisite Anna Strong as she made a round to distribute cake, one to refill beer; as put on another pot of coffee for those who did not drink and those who had reached their limit. Andre had abandoned him to karaoke, Rogers had abandoned him to join Caleb and his new friend in heckling Andre- Hewlett had long since stepped outside to take a phone call. Simcoe picked on the last remnants of his cake, smiling that his plan had functioned. All of the awful Hewlett siblings had called their brother. Their friends at the pub had pitied him enough to give him a proper send off, and Hewlett, he had had fun though he would likely never admit it. Though Akinbode would have proven better back up outside of his flat, though he had tons of other mates who could, in theory, take the astrophysicist’s place, it was still hard for him to imagine having to routinely subject anyone else to the brand of terror he thought of as friendship.

Feeling his eyes on her, Anna approached, asking if she could get him anything else.

“Lager for me, Rogers looks like he is about ready to switch to Glenmorangie, but I leave that to your digression. Between us, Andre and Hewlett prefer glorified grape and apple juice, and I can’t well deny them now that it is Christmas.”

“So, lager, single malt, cider and wine. Got it. You’re a good friend, you know,” she smiled before mocking him. “I’d die if I was made to order wine in a pub.”

“I don’t, and I didn’t, in a manner of speaking,” Simcoe defended.

“No,” Anna concurred as she started to turn her back on him.

He could not let her escape.

“Anna, I, about what happened when you came to my flat - I never meant to offend you in any way. It quite pains me that it seems I have.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m over it. You were right I, I should not have presumed-”

It was now or never.

“Would you perhaps like to go out sometime? Whenever you have time. I’d love to take you.”

“Are you asking me out _on a date,_ John?”

“Only if the answer is yes. Otherwise we’ll pretend we were talking about how desperately Dr Andre needs to surrender the mic.”

“I cannot handle another falsetto.”

“Oh.”

Apparently, it was never. He had been a fool who had fooled himself into thinking himself a gentleman. He opened his mouth to speak but he was lost for words.

“I’m kidding,” Anna said, shoving him lightly. He perked up. “Come round whenever you want. I’m here most of the time. I’m, look John. You were right, with the divorce coming up, I don’t know that I am ready to jump into anything serious just yet. I don’t want you to feel like you’ve been lead on. By me. Again.”

“I’m happy to wait.”

“I hope I am worth it.”

Anna Strong had a very particular way of saying _‘I don’t  know if I want you, but I want you to want me.’_ It had worked on him before. It had nearly worked on him the night he had given his bed to her rather than give himself to her in bed. She was fire and passion and rage, she was all that was good and beautiful, all that was dark and devastatingly wrong. She was everything, but she was not ready.  In time, he imagined, she would be his. He would play her games until she accepted the score.

“Anna, given that it is Christmas and as you’ve made it clear that I’ve nothing more to hope for in the immediate, there is a favour I will be bold enough to request,” he paused. Her eyes grew. “A kiss.”

“What? Now?”

“I know now that it is all I may ever have from you but I will treasure the memory all the same,” he swore. “For as long as I live.”

Anna leaned over the counter, meaning to give him a peck on the cheek. A fortnight ago, she had meant to give him everything. John Graves Simcoe was a man of action when action was required. He decided to remind her of this. Turning his head to meet her lips, he felt her lounge slide over his. He sucked at it just enough that she would not be able to break away. She responded be deepening herself still more. He loved her. He told himself that she would soon love him, exactly as he had since first they had met. When he began to pull back, he felt her nibble gently on his lip. She was his.

“Lager, single malt, cider and wine,” she clarified in a single breath when professionalism forced her to tear herself away.

“Madam,” he nodded.

 

* * *

 

He had been on the phone for over an hour when Anna Strong joined him on the bench outside, handing him a cider as before lighting a cigarette.

“Ah, thank you, Anna,” he mouthed. After saying the last of his goodbyes, he thanked her once more, adding, “This is quite kind of you.”

“It is from Simcoe,” she advised. “Well, Andre. Say, do you happen to know if Robert Rogers is drinking on his tab as well?”

“I know _he_ thinks he is, but it is best to let them sort it out at the end of the night. It will become a matter of contention either way. Rather curious to think, when I am gone, their endless bickering over who is in debt to whom will be the only thing holding our little football team together. Well, that and Joyce and Robeson from time to time, I suppose.”

“Is that how you all get on? Fighting over little things all the time?”

The things that caused himself and Simcoe the most tension were hardly trivial, but rather that elaborate on the darker points in their shared history, explain their slight yet fundamental differences in politics, or attempt to explain to an American all the reasons there were to hate the club Simcoe supported in the Championship, he simply laughed, “Mostly.”

“It is too bad you are leaving,” Anna said after a moment. He felt a twinge of regret.

“I will miss this place once I am gone. DeJong’s Tavern, I mean. I’ve yet to be sold on New York.”

“Maybe I’ll try to pitch you when you come back to visit.”

Hewlett nodded, remembering she had been standing there when he had lied to Simcoe about his intentions. “Next time your establishment will be my first stop, not my last,” he said, digging himself in deeper.

“I’d like that.”

“I still can’t believe you threw me a birthday party.”

“In truth, I did not know it was your birthday until you said something. Had you done so sooner I could have decorated.”

She was truly one of the kindest souls he had ever known. He ought to have spent more time in this place while he had had the chance, he thought. For a moment, he imagined spending the next three weeks drinking microwaved coffee as he revised, catching Anna’s dark eyes from time to time. Trying not to let him see her smile. Trying not to let anyone know that he understood every reason John Graves Simcoe and countless others found themselves infatuated with her.  

“That makes you even more marvellous. The cake was wonderful; as was dinner I might add.”

“Really?”

“Best Christmas I’ve had in years.”

“I don’t know if I should thank you or apologise on behalf of the Ghost of Christmas Past.”

She was charming. She was clever. She was forbidden.

“I mean it. Sincerely. Ah, John is truly a twisted genius. Terrible time though we had getting here, he actually managed to get my siblings to ring. I’ve not spoken directly to my brother and older sister in months. Years with the little one,” he mused. “Not only that, it was he who dragged me out tonight, kicking and screaming, mind. And here, you sorted a cake after that delicious meal. You threw me a party, let me know that I’ll be missed when I … well to be perfectly honest. I feel as though these past few years I’ve simply been adrift. I’m surprised,” he paused. “I’ll miss you. All of you. Tonight meant everything to me.”

“You’ll be back to visit though.”

“Sure.”

“Want one?” she asked, offering her pack of cigarettes and pulling out another for herself. “I haven’t had a break all night. Quitting at New Year. Might was well enjoy the last drags of my wild youth while I can.”

“I should have quit ages ago,” Hewlett said as he accepted. “I can’t even remember this youth of which you speak.”

“How old are you if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Thirty-five.”

“I’ll be thirty in April. I’m terrified. I think it is arbitrarily worse for women.”

“No, no. Not you. The muses themselves sing of your beauty and shall for decades to come. The gods are all jealous, Love,” he said. _Fuck_ , he thought. Hoping he was not blushing, he added quickly, “And ah, I know this isn’t my place, but I know that a mate of mine is more than a little hung up on you.”

“John? We talked about it. Inside just now. I just need some time for me. He made me see that, recently. How much time, I can’t really say. I’ve never really been single. I’m a discredit to feminism.”

“I’ve always been single.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Well I needn’t explain my whereabouts when my best friend decides that we should embark on a frankly stupid adventure, so that is a plus.”

“I think you’ll make some woman very happy someday,” Anna said, imagining herself briefly in the position of the woman she would soon turn out to be. The pair would be married by Easter.

“You – you don’t mean that,” Hewlett could feel his face flushing.

“Oh, I’d beg to differ.” Anna leaned forward, took the cigarettes from his mouth and replaced it with her lips.  Before he knew it, their tongues were tied around each other as his was often tied around itself in her presence. She forced him to be honest. There was a difference between _honest_ and _honour_ he had never understood until that moment and would never understand quite so clearly again.

“I … I can’t do this. Anna, ah -”

“Don’t hold it against me.”

“Never.”

“Your soccer team can fight about that for a few weeks.”

“Good thing I am going home.”

“You’d get me into trouble if you were to stay.”

“I could never do that to Simcoe,” Hewlett asserted. Time would test and change everything quicker than he dared imagine possible. By the following Yuletide, Anna would bare him his first child. For now, they said a clumsy farewell.

“I should be getting back.”

“Yeah, me too. Business as usual.”

 

* * *

 

“Who would you kill if given the opportunity?” John Andre asked as he retook his seat at the bar.

“You were not exaggerating this,” Hewlett said.

“Have I ever been given to hyperbole?” Simcoe smiled.

“You’ll always be my number one mate,” Hewlett started, turning his attention, he proceeded in diplomatic tones, “but in wake of the hell we’ve endured-”

“You Andre,” Simcoe answered bluntly, “everyone in the pub would off you in a second.”

“S’only answer fer meh,” Rogers agreed. “An’put yer damn phone away whilst playin’ philosopher.”

As chance would have it, this would be the last time John Andre would ask this particular question. By summer, he would know the true answer to be the man he had spent much of the night texting. He slipped the mobile back into his coat pocket. Despite having lost at his own game, he called for a round of port.

“Happy Christmas, lads,” he said in what would turn out to be his final toast to this crowd.

“Get fucked, mate.”

“Cheers.”


End file.
